


The Interrogation Room

by seths_dream



Category: Persona 5
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Anal Sex, Blood, Choking, Dark fic, Don't try this at home kids, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, I have never written anything this dark I don't entirely know where this came from, I started writing this in 2017 the second I finished the game and I just finished this oops, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pain, Spit As Lube, Violent Sex, interrogation room, like seriously, so...sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18834778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seths_dream/pseuds/seths_dream
Summary: Akechi had Akira right where he wanted him—locked in a cold interrogation room, bloody and helpless and at his mercy… or lack thereof.So why did it seem like Akira had all the control?





	The Interrogation Room

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I never thought I'd write dark!fic, and then I played Persona 5 and here we are. This fic is pretty fucked up, so, uh... sorry about that. With that said, enjoy!
> 
> 6/9/19--made some small edits.

“You’re fucked now,” Akechi said, watching the guard’s body slump to the ground, watching Akira’s reaction to it.

Akira’s reaction wasn’t good enough for him.

Before he realized it, he took several strides forward, rounded the table, and grabbed Akira by the collar of his dirty shirt. He forced Akira out of his seat and against his chest. “You’re fucked now,” he breathed. "You hear me?"

He didn't know why he was doing it, but the kiss was all biting teeth, and Akira was giving back as good as he got—which, where did that come from, Akira kissing Akechi? Akechi drew back, tasting blood after a particularly sharp bite to his lip, and he spat redness onto Akira’s cheek. Akira flinched and snarled at that. The feral look suited him—red faced in anger and (somehow) arousal, Akechi’s blood dripping slowly down his cheek, his hair an absolute mess from Akechi pulling it every which way.

He wanted to mess him up. He wanted to _destroy_ him, inside and out.

He punched Akira in the face, not holding back an ounce of strength. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Akechi hated that his voice shook. He hated how desperate Akira made him feel, the strange emotions that bubbled in him whenever he saw him. He needed to regain control over the situation.

Akira just looked at him and wiped blood from his lips with a sleeve. “What would you like me to say, Akechi-kun? I’m sure nothing would change your mind at this point.”

What the hell? Where was the rebellious Akira now? He wanted Akira to break, but suddenly he was the one breaking.

“ _I own you now!”_ His voice rose almost to a scream. “ _I’m_ in control. You’re beneath me.” Something was wrong. He didn't know what, but something was _wrong_ about Akira.

Akira simply looked at him, expressionless. Akechi grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “I’m going to _kill_ you,” he snarled. “Don’t you understand?” He was shaking with frustration at how _calm_ Akira seemed. He slammed Akira up against the metal table, lifting his hips up and pressing his ass on the precarious edge.

His face was smeared with old blood and bruises, his wrists were rubbed raw from the handcuffs, his clothes were stained and rumpled—but the expression he fixed Akechi with was sharp and dangerous.

“And that turns you on, does it?” He glanced down at Akechi’s crotch, then back up.

Akechi gritted his teeth. “Get out of your clothes,” he said, and then did the task for him when Akira took too long getting his shirt off. Akira shivered, naked, and Akechi pushed him from the table to the hard ground, willing his knees to bruise. Akira just looked at him with that same challenging smirk.

In a moment, Akechi’s pants were around his knees with a jingle of his belt and he gripped Akira’s hair by the roots. He fondled his balls, stroked his dick as Akira watched until it was fully erect. He rubbed his cockhead roughly over Akira’s closed lips. “Open them,” he whispered. Akira glared and locked their eyes together as he did, and Akechi slipped inside. He pressed his hips forward, forward, forward, until he felt the back of his throat close and Akira made choking noises, and then held there for a beat before withdrawing. He gave Akira a second to gasp for air before driving back in.

Somehow Akira managed to look insolent even when getting facefucked. He kept that burning stare on Akechi’s face, and it drove him even wilder. He let his hips buck into Akira’s face, wanted to bruise his cheeks with the slamming of his hipbones and yank his stupid pretty hair out by the roots. He hated this loss of control that Akira instilled in him. He needed it _gone._

He felt his orgasm building and made himself pull out (and how the fuck was Akira so good at sucking cock? Where had that come from?). That wasn’t the hole he was planning on coming in tonight.

Spit dripped sloppily down Akira’s chin and connected his lips to Akechi’s cock like a chain. His face was a mess. His hair was as ragged as his breaths, and the bruises the officers had given him were even more pronounced now. He looked almost pathetic, if only Akechi had any sympathy for him. Sympathy was to be given from the weak. Sympathy was what people like Akira gave—not people like Akechi.

He shoved his fingers into Akira’s mouth, getting them coated with the viscous saliva that coated the back of his throat. Somehow, without him allowing it, Akira turned the move sensual. He laved at Akechi’s fingers with a dexterous tongue, sucked at them messily in a mimicry of what he had been doing seconds earlier.

Akechi growled (in annoyance? Arousal? He wasn’t sure) and dragged Akira up to sit on the cold interrogation table. He’d had enough of Akira trying to take back control. He rubbed a finger at Akira’s hole just for a moment before twisting inwards. Finally, _finally_ Akira’s eyes flew open in panic as his ass clamped down on Akechi’s finger, but it was gone in a second. He was clenched hard—Akechi looked up at him to see eyes squeezed shut, nostrils flaring, before his breaths deepened and his muscles relaxed. Akira opened his eyes now, fixed them on Akechi with a carefully blank look, and rolled his hips.

 _He is absolutely insane,_ Akechi thought, and shoved a second finger in without giving Akira time to fully acclimate to the first. He wanted to hurt him, but damn if Akira didn’t seem to want to be hurt by Akechi just as badly.

He pressed his fingers in over and over, stretching Akira out not for his pleasure, but to make Akechi’s cock slip in more easily when it came time. That was what he told himself, anyway. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from getting distracted at the feel of Akira’s ass opening up for him with each stroke of his fingers and how Akira kept rocking his hips minutely.

“So are you going to fuck me, or not?” Akira said, jutting his chin upwards at Akechi. “Get it over with.”

Akechi snarled again and pushed Akira down hard enough that his head slammed on the metal table with a painful sound. He lay there for a moment, dazed, legs cocked open and head tilted back, panting and staring up at Akechi with indiscernible gray eyes and time froze for a moment where all Akechi could look at was the myriad of bruises over his pale body. He looked so young suddenly, so vulnerable, yet there was strength hidden in the muscles of his arms and the glint of his eyes. Akechi knew better than to think that Akira was vulnerable.

Akechi shook his head, let out a breath, lined his cock up. He pushed inside Akira’s ass, his cock slick with thick saliva. And ah, yes, at the stretch of Akechi’s cock Akira finally flinched in real pain. Akechi huffed a small laugh and kept pushing in, til he was seated fully. The spit wasn’t quite slippery enough, and the fit was _tight._

Fuck.

He moved shallowly, back and forth, testing the waters until Akira laughed and taunted: “That’s all you have? After all that? All bark and no--”

At that, Akechi lunged forward and bit at his lips, harsh, and drove his hips forward. Akira let out a hard cry into Akechi’s mouth—finally—and bit back as good as he got. Akechi hissed and somehow, their bites turned into rough kisses. He felt like he was being consumed. It was too much.

He pulled out and slapped Akira in the face, hard. “Turn around,” he bit out. “I don’t want to see your fucking face.” Akira didn’t move, so Akechi bodily grabbed his hips and turned him, bent him over the table and slid back inside him with a shuddered breath.

He grabbed at Akira’s cock. It was mostly soft, but he forced it to hardness with brutal strokes until Akira was keening and trying to arch away. Akechi leaned forward then and sank his teeth into Akira’s shoulder. Hard. Akira _howled_ at that. In pain, Akechi thought, but at the same time Akira’s cock twitched in his hand and his ass fluttered around Akechi’s cock.

“Look at you,” Akechi taunted. “The great leader of the Phantom Thieves, moaning from my dick in your ass. You’re just a piece of trash, and you know it. You like being used by me? You really thought I was your _friend?”_

Akira somehow managed to twist his head and lock eyes with Akechi even as his body shook from each thrust. “You really think I thought that? Maybe you’re not as good a detective as you think you are.” A shaky smirk lit up his face before he let out another broken moan and slumped forward onto the table.

Screw not seeing his face. Akechi pulled out again, rolled Akira over so his spine caught painfully on the table, then held a hand over Akira’s throat as he pushed forward again, plunging in and out with abandon. He squeezed his hand until Akira’s eyes fluttered shut, then squeezed some more.

For a moment he thought Akira had lost consciousness, but Akira shifted his hips with a sigh and Akechi looked down to see that his cock was fully hard still. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Akechi hissed, not looking for a response. He slapped Akira across the face again with one hand and grabbed roughly at Akira’s cock with the other.

He stripped it hard and fast in time with his thrusts until Akira cried out—pain? Pleasure? Both? They sounded the same to Akechi’s ears—loud enough to echo in the barren room, and suddenly Akira was _coming_ all up his chest and Akechi couldn’t stop himself from feeling thrilled and shocked all at once.

Akechi didn’t stop. His thrusts were erratic now, and his hand kept working at Akira’s cock until Akira really _was_ crying now, twisting in pain, overstimulated and trapped under Akechi. “I’m not gonna stop til I come,” Akechi panted raggedly. “You better make me come—”

Akira spat blood on Akechi’s face, and before he could bring himself to smack him for it, Akechi came _hard._ It was almost disgusting how hard he came, harder than he’d come before, from choking and slapping and forcefully fucking a piece of attic trash. Akira didn’t deserve the rush of pleasure and emotion Akechi couldn’t stop himself from feeling, and suddenly Akechi’s pleasure dropped out the bottom of his stomach leaving him feeling sick.

He pulled out, his come dripping from Akira’s ass and onto the table. That would be fun to clean up before leaving the room for the prosecutors to find. Gross. He could already feel bruises starting to form on his upper thighs from hitting the table edge with his thrusts. He was sure he'd left Akira with several more bruises than he'd already had.

“Had your fun?” Akira said. His voice was hoarse and his cheeks were wet, but his expression was back to a challenging smirk. He rolled off the table and onto his feet with a pained wince and started to pull his clothes on jerkily.

“Not yet,” Akechi said. He yanked up his pants, buckled them around his hips again and grabbed his gun. Now he would see real fear on Akira's face. He’d see it and revel in it, relish it until it was all he could see when he closed his eyes.

He wanted it. Needed it more than he needed air, more than he'd needed the orgasm that had pumped through his body barely a minute before. He was desperate for it and he hated himself for that.

Except that real fear didn’t cross Akira’s face for even a second. Instead, Akira _smiled_ with sharp teeth and said:

“You haven’t seen the last of me.”

Akechi stared at him. “What?”

Akira didn’t elaborate, of course. He just tipped his chin up again, looking at Akechi with that goddamn fearless expression that made him shake with rage. Even with blood smeared over his face, even with come spattered up his chest and tousled clothes, Akira looked like he was fully in control of the situation. How was that even possible? The enigma that was Akira. Akechi would never understand him, never, even if he had a thousand years to pore over him with detective's insight.

Akechi fumbled, grabbed his pistol, held it point-blank at Akira’s face. “I’m going to kill you,” he said again, echoing his words from earlier that night. His voice shook, but his hand didn’t.

He squeezed the trigger.

* * *

 

That night, Akechi had trouble sleeping. He had shot and killed scores of people and never flinched (not after the first few, anyway, not after he grew cold to it because he _had_ to, he _had_ to adapt and he was doing this for the good of the world, _really_ , Shido had to be taken care of and Akechi was the only one who knew how), but tonight he tossed and turned all night in his sleep.

He dreamed strange dreams.

In his dream he held Akira at gunpoint, except this time, it was the ray gun he used while posing as Robin Hood in the Metaverse.

Akira was smiling at him, and although Akechi didn’t pull the trigger, a bullet hole appeared in Akira’s forehead. Blood seeped in all directions until his smiling face was covered in vivid red. Blue flames erupted around him, and the taunting smile of Arsene blocked his face from view.

Arsene and Akira spoke as one: “You haven’t seen the last of me.”

Akechi shot up in his bed, instantly awake. His fine sheets were rumpled and sweat-soaked.

He sat in bed for a long time after that, unable to get back to sleep.

He felt like he didn’t understand the world anymore.

_“You haven’t seen the last of me.”_

What did that _mean?_


End file.
